


A Song Without Words

by FairOak



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Classical Music, Community: watsons_woes, Fluff, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pretentious Classical References, Sherlock Holmes' Violin, There's A Tag For That, Watson's Woes WAdvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 06:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16969386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairOak/pseuds/FairOak
Summary: With the aid of his violin, Holmes takes a stab at solving a nagging puzzle of some personal consequence to himself.





	A Song Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> In A Study in Scarlet, Watson describes Holmes’s violin skills as “very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder and other favourites.”
> 
> Mendelssohn's 'Lieder ohne Worte', otherwise known as 'Songs Without Words', is a collection of short pieces originally written for piano. Each one has a distinct melody line that in most cases would translate well into a violin solo. A few of the more popular ones acquired names, and the piece I imagine Holmes playing in this fic - Op. 19 No. 4 - is sometimes called 'Confiance', which translates from French as 'confidence' or 'trust'.
> 
> Have a listen:  
> https://youtu.be/xkye9XrkucA
> 
> Additional Notes: Not beta-ed. Slight disregard of canon timeline. Unabashed wordiness.

The first few months of my cohabitation with Dr. Watson were, at times, an uncomfortable exercise in adjustment. Perhaps it was only to be expected, considering the circumstances; but as that year came to a close, I found I had still not yet become fully accustomed to my living situation. Though at times my occupation brought a steady stream of visitors from all walks of life through the sitting room of 221B, I had been too long-used to solitude in the quiet moments between.  
  
And now, there was Watson.  
  
Though he had proven himself to be a reasonably intelligent man, I had observed enough to know that his logical processes were as flawed as any others'. That he would show such a keen interest in my work, from the very beginning, was baffling to me. He had the disconcerting habit of asking questions, but more than that - he listened to the answers. What conclusions he had drawn thus far, I could scarcely imagine. I found myself compelled to take care what I said, lest I give too much of myself away. His quiet, cautious inquisitiveness presented something of a problem in that regard.  
  
With some dismay, I had come to the realization that I regarded the man I shared rooms with as something of a puzzle - one that was taking up an increasing amount of brainpower of late. He had no idea, of course, that I regarded him thus. But as I came upon a lull of cases in the dreary mid-December of 1881 - the cold weather dulls the mind of even the most determined of criminals, I've found - on one particular evening I took the opportunity to dedicate my mind to the puzzle of Dr. John H. Watson.  
  
I had forewarned him at our very first meeting of my habit of playing the violin. Thus far I had confined it to short recitations of a rather desultory nature. But the practice has always been a focus of meditation for me, and now that I had a worthy subject, I took up my instrument that evening with a more purposeful intent.  
  
I had never before had an audience for the kind of rambling, discordant divergences that resulted. Nor did it truly occur to me that they might be displeasing to the ear until Watson drew my attention from across the sitting room by clearing his throat in the short space of silence between one draw of my bow and the next.  
  
I paused, suddenly conscious of the fact that I had been playing for some time, with no real recollection of what tune I'd been strangling from my instrument. I had quite forgotten he was there - quiet as he was, and absorbed as I was in thought - despite the fact that he was the main subject of my involuted musings.  
  
"My good fellow," I ventured with some chagrin, lowering my bow arm to the side. "Have I been disturbing you?"  
  
"No, no," he said mildly, not looking up from where he was perusing a periodical in his armchair by the fire. I suspected his nonchalance was rather calculated. Knowing him as I do now, I do not doubt it.  
  
"Is there something you would like to hear?"   
  
He looked up then, as surprised as I at the question. It had tumbled forth independent of my own volition, but I found myself keenly curious what his answer might be.   
  
It took him a minute to reply. "I am partial to Mendelssohn," he said presently, looking a little shy.  
  
My first instinct was to play with the aim to impress - the brilliant  _cadenza_  from the great concerto flashed through my mind - but when I raised my bow, I found myself shaping a simple, familiar tune from the  _Lieder._    
  
He did not quite watch me play, keeping up the appearance of continuing to read. But at the very first bar of the tune I observed, from the corner of my eye, his lips curve upward, ever-so-slightly. I believe it was the first time I ever truly saw him smile.  
  
I did eventually get around to the  _cadenza -_  and I recall well that he was duly (and satisfyingly) impressed. But greater still is my recollection of the gentle warmth of his attention as this faithful man - ill-used by the world and steadfast in the face of it - listened as I played, for the very first time, just for him.

 


End file.
